Page 126 of You Were Always Mine
Mascara smeared. Lipstick gone. My throat blotched red where Kai’s mouth and fingers had left their marks. I splash water over my face, blot it with trembling hands, try to make myself look like a girl who isn’t falling apart.
No one can know. Not Kai. Not my parents. Not anyone.
I whisper it to my reflection like a prayer. No one can know.
The bathroom floor is cold against my bare legs, but it does nothing to cool the fire eating me alive from the inside out. My phone sits facedown on the tiles, silent for once, but the quiet feels like a trap. Every time I blink, I swear I can see Tyler’s last message burned against theback of my eyelids, and the sick twist of his laugh still lodged in my chest from the bar.
I hug my knees tighter, chin digging into the bone, makeup smudged and sticky under my fingertips. I try to fix it, rubbing away black streaks, but the more I touch my face, the worse it looks—like proof. Proof of what I’ve done, what I’ve allowed, what I’ve begged for.
The house is silent. Too silent. Down the hall, I can picture Kai pacing his room the way he does when he’s trying not to break something. The silence stretches, taut and unbearable, until it feels like it’ll snap and cut me to pieces.
I press the heels of my palms to my eyes until stars bloom. My breath comes ragged, as if I let it loose it’ll shake the entire house awake. “I thought we were friends,” I whisper, so soft I’m not sure if it’s to Tyler, to Kai, or to myself.
I can’t tell anyone. Not about the messages. Not about the bar. Not about the way my body betrayed me on Kai’s lap while Tyler’s voice dug into my skull. Nobody can know, because if Kai ever sees those texts—if he ever puts the pieces together—he won’t stop. He’ll kill him. And then what happens to me?
I grab the phone again, thumb hovering. My heart stutters like it wants me to throw it into the toilet, flush Tyler’s words into the pipes. But I can’t. I need to know what he’ll say next. I need to be ready.
The screen stays black. My reflection wavers in the dark glass—eyes swollen, lips bitten raw. I don’t look like me anymore.
I whisper to the silence, “I’m not okay.” And then I wipe my face again, hard, because I know I can’t let Kai see that either.
The bathroom tiles bite into the backs of my thighs, cold enough to make me shiver, but I don’t move. I can’t. My phone is facedown on the floor where I shoved it under the vanity, its black screen humming like a threat, vibrating every few minutes with another message I refuse to look at. The sound rattles against porcelain like a heartbeat, like Tyler himself crouched on the other side of the door, waiting.
My chest is tight, breaths shallow, and every time I close my eyes I see his words burned onto the inside of my lids—hands, threats, the way he twists everything until it feels like my fault. You wanted it. You let me.
My arms fold over my knees, chin pressed down, and I rock—tiny, pitiful movements that do nothing to steady the storm breaking inside me. The mirror above the sink glints faint candlelight through the crack of the door, but I can’t bring myself to look. I don’t want to see my face. Not like this.
Another buzz. The sound spikes through me, and I squeeze my eyes shut. Don’t read it. Don’t. He can’t touch you here. Not here.
But my hand itches toward the phone anyway, fingers trembling like I’m reaching for a knife blade.
The air in the room is hot with my ragged breaths, but my skin is freezing, my whole body shaking with the effort of holding it together. The house is silent outside—too silent—and it makes the pounding of my heart unbearable, like everyone must hear it.
I press my palms flat against the tile, willing myself not to cry, but tears break anyway, sliding hot and ugly down my cheeks, dripping onto my knees. “I thought we were friends,” I whisper again, the words cracking. “I thoughtyou?—”
The phone buzzes again, sharp, cruel. I jerk my head up, staring at the door, half-expecting it to burst open.
Nobody comes.
It’s just me. Locked in. Spiralling.
The tiles are ice against the backs of my legs, my bare feet numb where they’re pressed flat to the floor. The phone won’t stop vibrating. I shoved it under the towel pile, like fabric could muffle the truth, but every buzz feels like a jolt to my spine. I curl in tighter, forehead pressed to my knees, mascara already smudged in black streaks I can feel drying against my skin.
I thought we were friends.
I thought you cared.
I thought you wanted me.
Tyler’s words don’t even have to be on the screen anymore—they’re etched behind my eyelids, carved like scars I can’t wash away. Each one is a blade, twisting. And still, the phone hums again. And again. And again.
I want to scream. I want to smash it against the porcelain sink until it shatters, until the messages can’t crawl through and sink their teeth into me anymore. But my hands won’t move. My body is locked, useless, and trembling.
I drag myself to the mirror instead, pushing off the floor on shaking knees. I see a ghost in the mirror: red-rimmed eyes, swollen lips, and messy hair as if it had been clawed at. I don’t even look like me anymore. I don’t look like the girl he keeps texting.
Another buzz. My breath hitches.
I force myself to whisper out loud, just to hear something that isn’t his words.
